Suspension of disbelief
by Bond.Jane
Summary: Suspension of disbelief" is the willingness to acept non realistic elements in a tale if the author infuses a semblance of truth or a human interest. During Booth's illness, Brennan willingly believes her own stories. NOW CONPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:I had time to think if I really wanted to jump on this particular band wagon of the fiction world- trying to console myself after he last episode. I found out that I coulnd't quite help myself. I mean, it's impossible isn't it, they way they keep abusing our trust...**

**Besides, I missed fiction world- even during the holidays.**

**Anyway, thank you to MickeyBoggs who reviewed this chapter even after a hard day of gardening.**

**Jane**

Temperance leaned against the sink, the nausea barely held in check. She looked at the mirror, studying the nearly unknown reflection, the result of 4 days of anguish, of near prayer, of fierce control over her worst fear. She studied that reflection looking for signs of Temperance Brennan. She'd be damned if she could find any. Temperance Brennan was Booth's partner, his best friend, his confidant, his drinking mate, his middle of the night solace, his broad day light support. If he did not remember her, who was Temperance? She stared at the reflection until her face was nothing but lines, neither good nor bad, just lines all the more distorted the more she tried to make sense of them.

She heard the man move on his mattress, his _"who are you"_ still burning a black hole in her heart where all the light was being sucked into. The distorted lines melted into a face again at her effort of concentration and, with a deep breath, she walked back into the room.

"Are you OK?" She could hear the concern in his smooth voice and read the worry in his oh-so-familiar face. But it was the worry for a stranger she heard and read, not what he usually saved for her, that worry that he loaded with the intimacy of a lover, a father, a brother. This was different. And it was like looking at an empty shell of him. And it broke her heart all over again. She wondered briefly how many times a heart could be mangled before it imploded. She hugged herself around her midsection, trying to hold herself up. She did not have the luxury of falling apart.

"Yes, thank you..."

Booth held his hand to her. His lips were dry and she could see he was already exhausted. She walked towards him and sat carefully by the bed to offer him the cup with ice chips she had kept fresh at his bedside table for when he woke up. His hand fell limp into hers, covered in bandages that kept a riddle of needles and tubes in place. He squeezed her fingers lightly. "I'm sorry"

Brennan took an ice chip from the cup and rubbed it over his dry lips, letting the ice melt into his parched mouth.

"I know." She rubbed an imaginary strand of hair out of his forehead.

"But it's going to be OK." And with that, the man who did not remember her gave her back a bit of herself: she was Temperance Brennan, the person Booth knew, better than anyone, how to console. He squeezed her hand again and drifted into sleep- or was it unconsciousness- once again.

******

"You should go home and get some sleep" His thumb rubbed lightly over the back of her hand. He knew that she had spent the last few hours sitting in an uncomfortable chair holding his hand. Throughout his sleep he had felt her soothing presence there. And he wished he could remember why she wanted to stay close to him.

She swallowed audibly. "You're right... I shouldn't be bothering you." He wished he understood why was it that her pain reverberated through his heart and why he felt lonely already at the thought of her leaving. His thumb continued rubbing circles over the back of her hand, unable to let go. He wished he understood that feeling that she was as vital to him as the air that he breathed.

"Isn't it time for pudding yet? We could share..." He wished he could understand why it felt so important to make her smile.

She consulted her wristwatch. "Just about."

His thumb traced the back of her fingers. She felt undernourished. He wondered if she ate properly. "Stay... Please"

He felt like a wuss. But it felt good to have her there. Even if he couldn't quite understand why.

****

The orderly was a motherly figure. She wheeled in a tray of odorless food she placed in front of Booth. She took a long look at Temperance and chided herself for not having thought about it before. It was more than obvious that the young woman had not been eating. She hadn't left the room since the man had been brought in. She walked back into the room and placed a second tray in front of the woman with the infinite, sad blue eyes.

"Here you go, dearie, you eat. Put some meat on those bones."

It was like a bell in Booth's mind, signaling that there was something in that sentence that was important. Something that he should know. But that something skirted just out of his grasp, an annoying feeling that he couldn't swat away or grasp. Temperance observed the feeling play across his face. Hope bloomed in her heart. Could it be that he only needed a key word to remember? But by the time he got to his pudding, the look was gone, as if he had forgotten that something was bothering him.

"I should go... let you get some rest." His hand immediately found hers and his thumb went back to rubbing the back of her hand.

"Will you come back?"

"I'll be here when you wake up" He knew she would. She turned off the lights and walked out. In the dim lights of the monitors he was attached to, he could see that she hadn't taken her coat or her purse. But before he could understand what that meant, his eyes closed and his brain gave up on understanding why.

*********

Temperance closed the door behind her and sat in the seat in the corridor outside the room. She waited five minutes, her hands patiently propped on her knees, her expression blank. Then, she removed her shoes and walked back in. His syncopated breathing told her he was asleep. She arranged the blanket to cover him- though there really wasn't any need- checked that the IV lines were running and took a seat close to the door of the room so that the typing wouldn't disturb his sleep. She switched on her laptop and opened a blank document as she had every night since he hand been wheeled out of the operating room, unconscious.

The wait was the worst part. Waiting for the morning. Waiting for news. Waiting for him. Waiting for her heart to beat again inside her chest. The cursor had blinked furiously, menacing, that first night. And then her fingers had detached from her brain and attuned to the frequency of her heart. That first night, Temperance experienced first hand the effect her writing had on her readers. She tuned out the smell of disinfectant in the air, the soft beeping of the monitors, the nurses coming in at regular intervals and the pain in her heart, the cold in her hands and surrendered to the appeal of literature- she entered a world of make believe- willingly, consciously. She very much deliberately put her brain in neutral and engaged her heart in overdrive- and her writing flowed fast and free from her thinning fingers. She broke the first rule of her writing- never be a character- and soothed her soul with fiction. She knew she was deliberately entering a world where reality did not matter. It only mattered that she could believe that life had not, once again, dealt her a wild card she did not know how to play. It was suspension of disbelief.

"_I've missed you" a tall man whispers in his wife's ear. His eyes scan her tired face as he pulls her into the warm, comforting circle of his arms._

(To be continued)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Thank you again to MickeyBoggs who always comes through for authors who have problems with spelling. If left to my own devices, you'd probably be laughing your socks off with the spelling- and other bits that may not quite be English.**

**Thank you to all of you that showed enthusiasm about what this story is becoming. **

**Jane**

Chapter 2

Temperance's fingers stopped their flight across the keyboard. She felt the kiss as thoroughly as if she had just kissed it. She felt Booth's arms close around her, protectively, lovingly, husbandly. She sighed and looked at the real Booth lying in bed, his breathing even, calm. Yes, she missed her Booth.

"_I missed you too, Seeley."_ Would she call him Seeley? It felt strange. She mouthed the word softly, trying the size and girth of it. It felt strangely good. Though, somehow, calling him _Booth_ had acquired an omnibus quality: it was his first name, his last, his epithet... both noun and adjective. Her fingers hit the backspace key.

"_I missed you too, Booth. So much" _

"_Are you any closer to getting this guy?" There is well-disguised concern in the man's voice. He knows that every day they leave the house is a day that something can happen to take her away from him. It could happen to him. He could be hit by a bus crossing the street. And yet the odds are in his favor. But bullets are irresponsible, unpredictable and his wife is tough but not bullet proof. Her profession defies the odds of coming back home whole. Every morning she straps on her badge and gun he feels the compulsion to beg her to stay. And perhaps he would if it had ever been about the money. It wasn't. They would live well on his money. Famous investigative journalists make good money. But his wife, his Temperance, is all about justice. She is his paladin. In other times, she'd be his knight in shining armor. Or Joan of Arc. So, even though he does not believe in her God, every day he prays that she is returned safely to him. _

_As he pulls his wife into his arms, he gives a quick word of thank you to that same god. Every day is a gift. _

"_Not yet. So far he is not taking the bait. It's like he knows someone is onto him. He's just not moving..."  
"And if you don't get him in the act, he walks..."_

"_I can't let him walk. Not this guy, Booth." He sighs and tightens his arms around her just a little bit more. It is a good thing she doesn't know how much he worries, how much each of her injuries in the line of duty kill him. Especially the ones she sustained to defend him. Those hurt in his chest as much as they hurt in her flesh. _

"_Are you in the mood for some Italian? I've made reservations at Gianmarco's...". Carefully, he arranges a strand of her hair behind her ear. He wants to tell her to be careful, to not be a hero every time. He had never trusted the police. He trusted himself to investigate, not the guys in blue and that made him good at his job. Until he met her, that is. Now, he feels dangerously close to abandoning the field that made him famous just to join her unit. Just to make sure she got home alive every night. So he cooperates with the Washington DC PD __at every opportunity. Just to feel close. As if by sheer will he could keep her safe._

"_Not tonight..." _

"_Thai?"_

"_You read my mind" She gives him a brilliant, tired smile that never fails to warm his soul. He realized sometime after he met her that he never used to smile before. That he took himself too seriously and that it had taken one very stubborn, very beautiful Temperance to show him how to live outside of himself. _

_He holds the door of the sports car open for her..._

As the nurse came in to check on Booth, Temperance stilled her fingers over the keyboard. He usually got agitated when the nurses came into the room and he fretted in his sleep. She observed as the nurse checked monitors and IV drips and scribbled on the charts. That night was no exception. Booth seemed agitated. She waited for the nurse to exit, her white shoes squeaking on the polished floor on her way out. As the door clicked close, Temperance walked over to the bed and carefully sat on the edge. She took Booth's hand in hers and lowering herself to him whispered in his ear "Bones, you call me Bones". The sleeping Booth sighed and relaxed. Temperance couldn't know, but the sound of her voice was nearly all the healing Booth needed. It was silly, she thought, that she should be disturbing a man deep in a healing sleep just so that he could remember her. But what if she missed him so much that the world seemed to be vacant of meaning until he woke up from that slumber? Temperance tried to be selfless, to let him remember her in his own good time. But what if he didn't? Would she be forever as formless, as unidentifiable as she felt? Stuck in Limbo?

_As the car comes to a halt in front of their favorite Thai take away, Temperance's cop instincts spring to life. There is something wrong, she knows. She turns to her husband and pleads with him. "Stay here. Please." She checks her weapon and silently opens the car door. That she moves like a cat is an incongruent thought in his mind. Which is stupid he knows, since she is about to walk into a dangerous situation. He should be praying right know. If only he knew how to open a communication line to heaven. He thinks of the Saint Christopher medal she wears. Such a small thing. How can such a small little thing keep her safe? Suddenly, his mind is made up. He dives into the glove compartment and picks up his own gun, the one he managed to acquire under her protective radar. He almost crawls out of the car, trying to imitate her feline grace and feeling like as inconspicuous as an elephant in a china shop. Suddenly he is inside the restaurant, the gun heavy and nervous in his hand. He hears her calm voice. "Drop it." And then the answer, hysterical, shrill, reeking of drugs, "You'll have to kill me, bitch!"_

What would Booth do if he had a gun at his head? She knew what she'd do, but that was not the point, was it? She was not the cop. And Booth never did things the way she expected him to. She sighed. It wasn't like could she ask him, like she could invite him into her fantasy. It would be like offering him a sample of her drug of choice.

_Booth takes in the scene with dread: Angela with a take away box still in her shaking hands and tears streaming silently down her cheeks; the boy- he is no more than a boy- with a gun aimed at Angela and his wife holding her gun to the boy's head, her hand steady as if the gun were an extension of her arm. Her voice has a soothing quality when she tells the boy "No, I don't. So far nothing happened. The cash is still here, the food as well and no one has been shot. You're still OK. Just drop the gun. Please." From that moment onwards, everything seems to happen in slow motion, the way it does in movies so that you can keep up with the action: the boy's hand shakes, his eyes are those of a rabbit with nowhere to escape, red in the cozy lights of the restaurant, wildly looking for a way out. Booth can see the moment he decides to force his way out of the trap: he turns to his wife and tries to take aim, his hand shaking. He can see the alarm in her face and he knows that she will never shoot first. She will never claim a life just to save her own. Not his paladin. And suddenly time's out. He lunges forward and stands between the bullet and Temperance's chest._

She looked at her Booth, the one laying in bed. She would have taken that bullet. Then she would never have found out that the world where Booth was not alive was an unknown place. If she had seen Pam Nunan come into that bar, she would have taken the bullet. And he shouldn't have robbed her of that. Booth without the world was acceptable. The world without Booth? She hadn't even known who she was anymore. Not then anyway. Back then she could only think as far back as Temperance Brennan, forensic anthropologist, and carry on with her days on that basis. But now? What was it now that he was there but not really? If only that tumor was a bullet that she could jump in front of.

_Booth can feel the bullet going into his flesh. He has never been shot, so he doesn't know how it's supposed to feel. Should his whole body hurt and burn? So much so that he is incapable of saying exactly where he's been shot? Temperance looks at him, surprised that he's there. "Booth!" the name comes out of her lungs as if it had been punched out of her. The kid is surprised himself. He panics. Now there is no going back. Blood has been spilled. The wild fear in his eyes makes them look too big for his face. "Oh shit! Oh Shit!" Temperance moves towards Booth but the kid is faster, jazzed on narcotics, and he points his jittery gun at Booth, at his head. "Oh Shit!" the kid repeats again and again. Temperance does not know if he'll fire again. He looks horrified by the blood gushing out of her husband's shoulder. His left shoulder. And she doesn't like the math of it. Two inches down and it would have been Booth's heart. Her heart. HER HEART. "Oh shit!" and she hears it, the gun cocking again in the silent restaurant and Angela's little shriek and with no further thought than _Booth_, she lunges toward the kid and fights for control, fights for the gun, fights their lives. And that's when the gun goes off with a maddeningly loud hollow sound._


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's notes: **

**1- Thank you to MickeyBoggs, my beta extraordinaire. **

**2- Thank you to all of you that have been reviewing and supporting.**

**3- Thank you Temperance Brennan and Seeley Booth for being such nice characters to play with.**

**Jane**

Chapter 3

Brennan's fingers stilled again, the quick writing of before coming to a sudden halt as the memory of Booth's blood gushing out of his chest filled her senses, the metallic smell of it, the viscosity of it, the warmth of it. That bullet had been meant for her. Pam Nunan had aimed at her. The bullet that burned a hole in Booth's chest had hurt her as much- more, much, much more- in her heart than in his flesh. After all, he had recovered. She hadn't.

_The gun goes off with a maddeningly loud hollow sound._

It had been the sound of her heart stopping in her chest.

With a sharp intake of air, Booth gasped and sprang to a sitting position in bed, clutching his chest where Pam Nunan's bullet had hit him, a mere inch above his heart. Her heart. "Temperance" And there was absolute panic in his voice. The monitors beeped alarmingly fast and his breathing was coming in pants. Just like she remembered breathing that night a year ago. Without the movements really registering, she had put her laptop on the floor and had rushed to him. Without really registering, her own breathing only returned when her hands reached his. "Shh, I'm here, Booth, I'm right here. Shh". His body was stiff with anguish and she could all but hear his heart drumming in his chest. She sat on the bed as two nurses rushed into the room in a flurry of white and antiseptic smell. They pushed her away and pushed him back onto the bed and she could see his eyes open and staring into her though he seemed to see through her- rather than see her. The nurses hovered over Booth and she couldn't see him for a few long seconds no matter how much she circled the bed. She wanted to get close to him and hold his hand. He had called out her name. He remembered her, that was all that mattered to her at that moment. But then the nurses conferred between themselves and they pulled a vial and a needle out of their tray and injected it into his already tube-ridden hand and looked at her with stupidly maternal eyes.  
"We gave him something to help him sleep. He'll feel calmer now." Brennan wanted to scream and shout as his eyes glazed over under the effect of the sedative and then softly closed. _No, no, no. He remembered me. HE. REMEMBERED. ME. _But the words just wouldn't come out, as if her throat had closed with his eyes. _He remembered me and now they got him to sleep again. _As the nurses walked out, she approached the bed again, tentatively. She sat on the edge, taking care not to disturb any of the tubes going into and out of him. She felt so cold. Almost as cold as she had felt when he had "died". Her instinct was to get closer to him, to his body heat.

"Temperance." The word was slurred and barely audible. But it was her name. Her eyes filled with tears again. It irritated her that she was again close to crying. Because she wanted to ask _yes?, _because she wanted to tell him she was there for him, waiting for him, but the knot in her throat stood in the way and nothing came out. Just a sob. "My wife. My bullet." his voice came out hoarse, rasp but almost clear and his hand squeezed her so lightly it could have been just a feather. "My Temperance."

Rationally, there was no way. It was impossible. Rationally. She could have misheard him- rationally. She might have said something out loud that had influenced him- rationally. She often did when she was writing alone at home. But what she was thinking now was not rational. It was stupid and childish. And yet, it felt good. Sort of like faith felt good. Faith in him, that was all the faith she knew. But it still felt good. Because faith was when you felt less alone in your hour of need. So it felt stupidly good to think that he, somehow, remembered her. That he could meet her in her "B" world as she sometimes called it. Stupid. Really, really stupid. But nice. It felt less lonely. She pulled his hand to her face and held it there. She needed comfort and he was the only person who could offer it, even if what he remembered wasn't exactly her. As sleep overtook him, as his breathing steadied into a comforting rhythm and his hold on her hand eased, Temperance relaxed and whispered in his ear "Not this time, Booth. My Booth. My bullet."

_The noise of the bullet reverberates. It echoes off the walls, off people and objects. If you've heard a gun shot, you'll understand this- that the silence that follows weighs on you heavier than your whole existence. Heavier than the world if the one you love has been shot. _

_As he hears the gun going off, Booth is momentarily paralyzed by fear. There are no moans of pain, no gun falling to the ground, no hysterical screams from the witness. Just the ominous silence and the smell of sulfur. And that moment of paralysis by fear seems to stretch and stretch. Yet, it is no more than a second. But it's that precious second while you can still pretend that everything is OK. And if that second could, perhaps, just hold a little while longer, maybe you could figure out how to prepare yourself for what's coming._

"My Booth. My bullet." Tears flowed freely down her pale cheeks, unnoticed.

_Booth drags himself to the heap on the floor. Now the smell of sulfur has an undertone of blood, intense, pungent, nauseating. It's difficult to understand whose limbs he's tugging at. Then he makes up a high heeled boot and he holds on to the leg attached to it and he thinks back to when he was a child and helped his mother undo the knots in the knitting yarn. He holds on to the leg and gently pulls until he finds the rest of her. He scoops her up, the throbbing, burning pain on, his shoulder making his movements difficult and slower. The gun he had acquired is still in his hand, all but screaming how useless it had been. Useless- the gun and the person holding it. He is frantic now. "Temperance, Temperance, please". His heart drums in his chest, smaller drum beats each time until all he can feel is his own heartbeat fading because if Temperance is not there, what is the point of him? "Temperance, please."_

Brennan stopped typing. She never thought back to that moment on the floor of the Checkerbox. There was no way she would willingly go there again, to that moment when she had become the loneliest of creatures as Booth faded away in her hands, when there had been nothing that she could do. She had lost track of how many times she had told herself there was no point in crying, no point in being angry. And still, every time she was caught off guard, the acute loss felt the same- as if there was nothing at all keeping her, no attachments. No one to give anything to, no matter how distant the nature of what she was allowed to give was from what she truly wished to entrust... She got up from her chair and walked towards the sleeping Booth and sat gingerly on the bed, holding his hand.

"I don't think I'll ever forgive you for that" Her breathing was coming in hard pants and that familiar knot had taken residence in her throat again. "For dying for me. What were you thinking? I had no interest, no life after that. After you. I'm not mad at the secrecy afterwards. I'm mad that it could have been true. I'm still so mad and I don't know how to forgive you. Not now, not again."

_One final pull and Temperance slides off the tangle of limbs and death. One more tug and she lies on his waiting arms. "Temperance, come on, Temperance." He shakes her almost violently. Because it is vital that she comes back to him. What is Booth without Temperance? _

_Booth would like to believe in God. Belief in something above you is comforting. But how can he believe in a god that dishes out pain like the world has nothing but it? How can he empathize with a god that is all powerful, that can save or doom you just on the barrel of gun, no matter how good you are, a god that will never depend on someone just to be able to breathe? He could empathize with a god that was limited. He doesn't really care what the limits are. Just as long as it is a god that knows what pain is. A god that can't do anything but sit and hold your hand while you suffer. He can't make himself love or believe Temperance's God. And still he tries. "_Please help her." _He searches her face for that spark of life. And the only thing he finds is sorrow. As he runs his hands through her arms, he finds the gun in her hand. He tosses it aside. _

_Angela looks at the tangle on the floor. She is in shock, scared out of her mind. But she doesn't kneel next to her friends. It is an intimate moment- even if one of them has been shot. She dials for an ambulance, reporting a gun shot wound._

_On the floor, a blood stain grows, it's starting point, the body of a boy that couldn't have been older than 17. He lies dead on the floor, ready to rot away in a grave that his family will lovingly prepare for him. Probably._

_In her husband's arms, Temperance fights the numbness, the aftershock of pulling the trigger. _

_You see, when you kill someone, it's not just that person who dies. You die a little bit too. Temperance knows that. That's why she tried to keep Booth from getting his own gun. She knows she will relieve this evening again and again and that it will never make sense- except if she remembers that Booth is still alive because she did pull the trigger. And the weight of the guilt is hers- and hers alone. He remains untarnished._


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: 2 thank yous: one to MickeyBoggs who always reads and makes presentable these chapters. The other, to those of you reading- and most especially, reviewing. From the heart: **_**Thank You**_**.**

**Jane**

Chapter 4

Brennan sighed. They had each killed to keep the other alive. She wanted to understand his guilt over it. In her mind it had clearly been the thing to do. The ones she loved, first, self preservation after. Guilt? No. She hadn't had a second of regret over shooting Pam. It didn't even make it to her list of worries let alone guilts. Things like Zach's demise, yes. Even Angela's heartaches at times. Stopping that woman in her tracks? No. It had been like breathing. And no one feels guilty for breathing.

*******************

"It felt so real" Brennan looked up from Booth's hand in hers and into his open eyes, the effort of focusing back on the present rewarded by his intense stare. It was like déjà vu, that wistful tone in his voice, the longing in his eyes. And this time, she didn't want to say it wasn't real, because there was that little absurd hope, born out of the sound of her given name in his voice a while ago. If he remembered her, she was going to nurture it. If it was something else, if he could _hear_ her story in his head, she would use it. But she wanted Booth back. She was a patient woman. And she was willing to get him back one small memory at a time.

"What did?" He raised his hand to her, to her shoulder where the story Booth had been shot, seemingly oblivious to the paraphernalia coming into and out of his hand. His fingers probed and searched.

"It felt so real." Tears stung her eyes but she held on to them.

"Just a story, Booth. It was just a story."

"But it hurts here" Booth pointed at his heart. "When I though you were gone it hurt here." And his tube-ridden hand dragged hers to point at his heart. "I couldn't breathe." She couldn't either. Not right there and then.

"It's OK, Booth. It was just a story".

"Don't die again. I can't breathe if you die." His hand held hers to his reassuring heart beat and closed his eyes.

"I know, Booth. Me either."

***************

"Is it your job to tell stories?"

"In a way..."

"Doesn't feel exactly right... But I guess it suits you. What kind of stories do you tell?" Brennan thought about that for a fraction of a second. He needed the truth- but in small increments, like pieces of a puzzle that he would need to put together.

"The kind that some people would kill to forget and others die to remember..." As she studied Booth's reaction in his sleepy face, she saw it again, that flicker of almost understanding.

Booth knew that he should understand it. That if he was somehow connected to her- and how could he not be if it felt too vital to have her there- he should know. He struggled to hold on to that thought, to pull and tug at that thread until he came up with something. Why was it that he could remember the combination to his high school locker but not her name when so clearly they were together? How could he be such a damned bastard as to forget about the name that went with that face?

He studied the face again. He concentrated on the lines and angles of it, on the crease in the forehead that spelled worry, on the down-turning lines of her eyes that spelled sadness. He would bet his last dime that she hadn't smiled often. That a smile on that face would be like staring at the sun after the rain. If only he could remember how to make her smile.

"Would you tell me a story?"

She couldn't really say that the request had caught her off guard. Not exactly. But it still frazzled her.

"Aren't you tired?"

"Yeah... but it feels so real. Always so real and... sometimes it hurts."

"And the other times?"

"The other times feel good." Was that a blush she saw on his face?

"What if I stay here? I'll wake you up if it gets bad..." She sat in his bed, making herself as small as possible, and leaned against the back, feeling him instantly scoot over to her. Body heat, it seemed, was something they both craved. It took him less than a minute to even his breath and sleep.

***********************

"Do you remember that Saturday morning in the park?" She looked at the sleeping Booth. She wondered if his subconscious could capture her words and begin to remember. She held his hand tightly in hers. He sighed briefly and she felt the air move around her, enveloping her in the comfort of his proximity. She spoke softly, the cadence of her voice as if she were maintaining a conversation. "I don't think I'll be able to forget the music from the merry go round, so happy, so inconsequential. Parker looked so scared to be back there, but you got him back on that horse. You have this gift, Booth, that you give people confidence to get over what they fear the most. Even when you put up walls and lines.

As Booth slept, Brennan sat by the bed, a blank document open on her laptop.

_A woman walks into a small diner in the small hours of the night. It's dark and cold outside. Nearly as dark and cold as inside her heart. It hurts to breathe when your heart has been broken, but you do it just the same, out of habit. And the fact that you concentrate on the movement of your lungs helps you concentrate on getting your life back, even through the pain. You concentrate first on breathing in and then on breathing out and then in again. And when that part is mastered, you move on to the basic actions: blinking, holding yourself upright, walking. And you've convinced yourself that you can do those things, one small action at a time, you won't have to remain on the floor like an old rag. You get up and pretend to yourself that life goes on. Just like everybody says._

_The woman sits at the counter. Not much point taking up a whole table. Tables are for two or more. Not for singles. She puts her purse on the stool next to her and tries to think back to why she came here. Her eyes stare vacantly at the walls and paraphernalia of the diner. Her thoughts are fuzzy and unformed like cloudsthat aren't really one shape or another. Before she could find an answer to her question, a man walks towards her. He stands opposite her, behind the counter. He takes a cloth and wipes the counter with it. Her eyes get distracted by the elliptic movement of the cloth in a strong hand. A working hand. She knows he's waiting for her order, but she can't bring herself to concentrate on the menu. She can't bring herself to concentrate on anything. It seems like the world is a blurry shadow of all that things used to be. _

_The man behind the counter studies the woman who just came in. He keeps his diner open until late. Or should he say, until early? So he sees all kinds coming in through his door. There are the daytime people- they come to eat and drink. They come in happy or upset. But they come in feeling something. And then there are the nighttime people. They trickle through the door with their heartaches, with their dilemmas, with their problems that they keep, mostly, to themselves. The quiet ones. They sit at his counter and, eventually, they share. _A load shared is a load halved_ his mother used to say._

"_Can I get you something, Miss?" He's done wiping the counter. It's so clean it shines in the humdrum light of the halogen lamps. She snaps out of her reverie to the liquid sound of his voice but her mind just does not form the words for an order. Sorrow was silent in her and it seemed to pull all her words into the same dark vortex of silence. "Tell you what" and he ducks under the counter and returns with a dusty bottle in his hand. "This here is a very fine whiskey. Kentucky's finest. And I've been saving it for when the Sixers beat the Knicks. Now, we all know that that's not gonna happen any time soon." He wipes the bottle of its dust lovingly, caressing its rounded shape, then pours a shot glass and then another. His are deliberate movements meant to give her time to start talking. He pours her a glass and then another one for himself. "My name's Booth." And he reaches his hand across the counter for a handshake. It takes her some time, but she responds, her hand soft, almost inarticulate in his. _

"_Brennan."_

"_What, didn't your parents like you?"_

"_I don't think they particularly liked me..." It's too late, by the time she looks at him to realize that he's joking. "You meant my name..." He nodds an assent. Tha' already more information that he had bargained for. "Temperance"._

"_That's pretty..." _

"_No, it's not" she half-chuckled. He knew he'd been caught in a lie and blushed._

"_It is... sounds sort of like a prayer. Lots of sss in there." He holds his cup up. She wonders briefly what they will toast to. New friends? Old loves? The future. She feels like she has none of those. It would be so inappropriate for her to toast to any of it. But he remains silent. Not an uncomfortable silence, not something you feel the need to fill. Just a warm silence. He raises his small glass and waits until she lifts hers. The silent toast is to her. _

_There is probably an appropriate answer, some sort of charming acknowledgement, but she just can't remember what it is. So she drinks her shot of Kentucky's finest in one single movement she hopes is slick. As the fire burns in her throat all the way down to her stomach, her body revolts against the power of the liquid. The more she tries to resist the coughing urge, the more pressing it becomes and tears well up in her eyes. The bartender walks back humming tunelessly to some song she can't quite identify. There is a warm smile in his eyes and a plate in his hand. _

_He puts a plate in front of the woman. _

"_This will help with the burning in your throat."_

"_What is it?"_

"_Blueberry pie."_

"_I'm not hungry."_

"_OK. But have a bite to soothe your throat. That has got to be burning" _

_It is burning. And the coughing fit does not want to stop. She takes the fork he offers._

"_I don't like pie."_

The sleeping Booth sighed. There is a small smile in his unusually pale face. He nods in silent disagreement. _You don't like pie. _Brennan puts the laptop on the floor and takes his hand. Her heart is racing, the flutters of hope giving it wings.

"No, I don't like pie." She spoke in a whisper. It feels ridiculous to her logical mind that she wants to believe that he hears her stories. Her cheeks flush, embarrassed for herself, embarrassed for anyone listening to her. But what does logic have to do with it? "Will you remember why I don't like pie, Booth?"

Booth scooted closer to her but there was no reply. Silly, silly Brennan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: I know, I'm a bad girl. I've been away for far too long, leaving stories unfinished. But I have a tale of internet woes to tell: no access at work, no access at home- for over a month. It's been like living under a rock... But the good news is that the story is finished and as soon as MickeyBoggs finishes her proofreading, I shall be uploading the sixth and final chapter. So thank you Mickey for you help with this- as always.**

**As for you, dear reader, enjoy.**

**Jane**

Chapter 5

"_How can anyone not like pie?" Her shrugging shoulders do not offer any reason. "Come on, Temperance, this is the _Pie Shack._ You need to try my pie. I make it myself, you know? She looks at his hands. Strong, capable hands. Big hands. Is it true that big hands mean big hearts? She'd bet that he'd never hurt anyone with those hands. She takes the fork and breaks through the delicate crust into the soft, juicy filling. It feels oddly comforting, sitting there in the middle of the night, alone with a stranger in a diner. Eating pie in silence.  
_

"It never really mattered what we did together, you know?" Her hand ran through Booth's arm, carefully avoiding the crisscrossing of tubes and needles. "Whatever we did together always gave me peace." Brennan sighed, took in her surroundings, the softly beeping machines, the distant muted sounds of a hospital during the night time. "Even now." And in an afterthought, "I bet you've never been this pathetic, disturbing someone in their sleep..."

"Nowhere..." Booth's mumble came from deep in his sleep and made her heart race slightly.

"Shhh, sleep, Booth. Just sleep, now. There's nothing more you can do. Just sleep."

"Nowhere."

"I don't understand."

"There's nowhere I'd rather be." Her heart did a curiously little dance, something between irrational happiness and abject fear. Where was he and more important, was she with him?  
.

.

"_Well?" He points with his chin at the pie. _

_She shrugs again and puts her fork down. _

"_It's pie." _

_He scratches the back of his head. _

"_And that's it? That's all the compliment I'm going to get?" He pouts to make her smile. _

_And she can't help herself. _

"_It's a nice pie. I just don't like pie, much" But she eats it nonetheless. It's important to him. The pie and that she likes it. She takes one more forkful of pie. Of all the things she never wanted to do in her life, eating pie to make a nice man happy is not the worst. Not by a billion miles. _

"_So what brings you to the _Pie Shack _at this time of night?" _

_She thinks about telling a lie. Anything. But nothing comes to mind because he is just looking at her and it seems to her it doesn't really matter anyway. She takes a bunch of keys from her pocket and places them on the polished counter. To give herself time, she eats another forkful of blueberry pie. He just stands there and waits. He's not smiling or fidgeting or any of the other telltales people have when they are anxious or when they are just trying to move conversation forward. He is waiting for her as if, at that moment, there was nothing else in the world but her and her reply. Funny thing is that no one ever gave her that time. She props her her face on her hand to observe him. The truth is almost always more interesting than a lie. _

"_He just left. There is nothing inside that place. Not even a dust mote. Took all my things. Even my clothes." _

_He doesn't flinch. Doesn't offer words of sympathy. Just stands there and takes a fork from a box behind the counter and takes a piece of her pie, cutting into it slowly and studiously. _

"_Did he take only things?" And he eats the piece of pie he cut from her plate. _

_She thinks about it. Was there more than things for him to take? No, there really wasn't. She shakes a negative with her head and eats some more, the slight sourness of the blueberries seems appropriate. No amount of sugar can disguise it. _

"_Well, if he didn't take a piece of you then you're almost OK." _

"_Yeah, I guess I'm almost OK."_

"_And look at that: one bite left." And he picks it with the fork and stuffs it in his mouth._

"_I thought that was my pie"_

"_I'll tell you what: you only need to get to know your kind of pie. Come back tomorrow and I'll serve you a bigger piece. I'll find the pie that suits you. Cross my heart"  
._

_._

"Did he find her a pie she likes?" The words were a raspy sound somewhere between sleep and vigil. Brennan's blue eyes turned from the screen and adjusted to the darkness in the room to make out his brown eyes, open, expectant. There was no rush in the question, there was time for her to answer, there was the importance of her reply. Knowing that settled her wildly beating heart.

"Eventually..."

"She doesn't like pie..."

"No. But people change." His eyes studied her for a few long moments. He was looking for something. She knew that look from all the times she had observed him from behind the glass of the interrogation room. She knew when he suspected something and he stopped talking to play around with all the pieces of information until they fit together. She knew it was a matter of time.

"Tell me how he did it." She didn't know. It had just happened. Over time. Over the longest time. And then, there it was, undeniable, impossibly strong. And impossibly painful.

"She went back the following night."

"Because she didn't have a TV to watch at night..." he smiled at his little joke. She did too. She knew he did that, slight his own importance.

"Because she had seen the pleasure people eat pie with, and she had always wanted to find a flavor she liked. Not too sour, not too sweet, not too bland."

"Just right, like the porridge..." Yes, she supposed. Just right, like the porridge. But what were the odds? "And she... hoped that he might be the one to find her that flavor."  
.

.

"_Just right, like the porridge. I'll find you the perfect pie." The man at the counter tells her, as he slides a plate with a slice of lemon pie. The diner is empty as usual. Too late in the evening for even the night hawks, too early even for the early risers. He had hoped she would come in that night. She's not sure why she goes back. But it surprises neither of them when she walks in bringing the cold of the night with her._

_She takes the fork he gives her and studying the pie, cuts a piece._

"_Turns out he left the phone."_

"_Did he?"_

_She nodded. _

"_Turns out he wanted to call me"_

"_To say what?" She deliberates while she works the lemon pie in her mouth. It's sour, even through the velvety cream, even through the sugar. Sharp, tangy. Still not right. Why not the truth?_

"_That I'm a 'clusterfuck' of cold bitch"_

"_Ouch!" He pulls a stool and sits, takes a fork and then a bite of her pie. "You're right. Not my favorite pie either." He takes a moment to study her expression. And knows she believes she deserves the insult. "Are you?"_

"_Am I what?" _

"_A clusterfuck of a cold bitch?" That's the question, isn't it? How would she know, except for the fact that she has been told so before? It doesn't feel like it to her. But she's biased._

"_Maybe." The lemon pie leaves a sour taste in her mouth and her tongue feels bruised by the acid. _

"_It doesn't look like it from where I'm standing." It feels good. The pie, the company, the words. Even through the sourness in her mouth. Despite herself, she smiles at him and bites one more slice of pie._

"_It's nice."_

"_I know. But not enough to make a believer out of you."  
"Believer in what?"  
"In the power of pie. Pie can heal the world." It's funny how he smiles with his eyes first and only then with his face. It's so easy to believe that smile because it comes from the heart.  
._

_._

"She's not cold." His voice is solemn.

"No?"

"No. If she was, she wouldn't be there."

"She's eating pie..."

"She did not go there for the pie."

No, she supposed. She didn't.

"I'm sure there were other diners"

"That one served pie."

"I'm sure there were other pie-serving diners"_ Yes, there must have been_. Except that no other had ever insisted that she tried. No other had ever taken the time to insist. To try it with her.

Brennan took a deep breath, calling up all her strength reserves. No use falling apart now. If ever there was a time to believe in something other than herself, bigger than her own reality, this was it.

"Yes, there must have been. And she was curious."  
"To see if he would find her just the right pie?"  
.

.

_She goes to that diner every night after that. He bakes her apple pie- his favorite. But it was too bland. He baked her apricot and peach, but it was too tangy. Key lime: too bitter. Almond: too intense. When she walks in on the seventh night, she smiles. It's an odd thing, because she doesn't feel like smiling anywhere else. Even though she brought new things into her empty apartment, even though it no longer echoes its emptiness, the _Pie Shack _still feels more like a home. When the door bell chimes its welcome, and the smell of baking invades her senses, she just can't help, that warmness and the way the smile wants to open up: to him, to the diner, even to the lonely stool at the counter. Walking in through that door opens a new dimension in her days. Sitting on that stool, flavors are more intense. The sour is sourer, but the sweeter is also sweeter. _

_She sits at the counter. It's no longer the right place for the lonely. It's the right place for her because someone stands on the other side to keep her company._

"_It smells nice."_

"_It always does, if I do say so myself!" There is a little smug smile in his face and it suits him. It goes well with the brown eyes and the big hands . "This is, after all, the _Pie Shack, _but today I'm trying something new."_

"_Whatever you're trying, it smells wonderful". It does. It's a warm smell that envelops the whole diner and makes the spaces between things feel warm and comforting. Makes her want to wait until it's ready, even though she's feeling hungry and anxious to try whatever he is going to serve her today. Even if underneath that eagerness, there is the almost certainty that she won't like it, that it will still be too sour. That's the nature of pie. _

"_And it's almost ready" _

_Suddenly, she's afraid. Afraid to try it. _It's only pie,_ she tells herself. But what if she has to refuse it again? It will hurt his feelings. And what if what she likes it but it's so unique only he can offer it? What then? Will she have to come to the _Pie Shack_ every night for the rest of her life? Fine with her, it's home, but what if he gets tired of serving her pie? Where will she be then?  
._

_._

"No."

"No?"

"No. No way he gets tired of serving pie. It's like... he was born to serve pie."  
"A vocation?"

"Yes. And she's just afraid of trying the right one. But there is a right pie for everyone. And even if it's not right and she has to hurt his pie feelings, he'll survive."

"He's going to all that trouble for that? Maybe she's not worth the risk."  
.

.

_He comes from the kitchen area at the back with a hot pie dish in his hand. He takes moment to look at her and a smile spreads from his brown eyes to the rest of him. _

"_I made you something special. Just for you. I think I'm going to call it _Temperance Pie."  
_"Even if I don't like it?" His smile fades a little, but he is quick to recover._

"_I'm sure you'll like it. But even if you don't I'll keep it. This one is a keeper." He puts the pedestaled pie dish in front of her. It looks just like any other pie. There is crust, and inside there is a filling. The crust is slightly crunchy when he cuts into it. It looks exactly the same as every other pie. But then he places a slice on a plate, takes two forks and sits in front of her._

_And that's when she knows. Even if it is exactly the same as any other, she will have it. Because he sits with her and he is ready to try it with her.  
._

_._

"What pie is it?" Booth's expectant eyes are fixed on her.

"Just pie."  
"I don't think there's such a thing as _just pie. _All pies are different."

"Not if you don't like pie"

"People change- you said so yourself. What kind of pie is it?"

"It's silly. Just a silly pie."  
.

.

"_Cinnamon pie?!?"_

"_Huh, huh." And he observes as she takes a bite of the pie, the warmth of the flavors spread through her, rich and deep. So different from what she was used to in pie. _

"_Wow!"  
._

_._

"Cinnamon pie!" Booth smiles. It's the first smile since he woke up all those hours ago not remembering her. She was so happy to see that smile she repeats his words in the same tome of wonder.

"Cinnamon pie!"

"It figures," Booth smiles at her.

"What figures?" But Booth didn't answer.

"And then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean _then what? _Is that the end of the story? Doesn't he kiss the girl? Doesn't he get a thank you for all the hard work he put into finding her the right kind of pie? I though this was a metaphor." Brennan blushed violently. "Come," he patted the bed next to him. "Tell me rest of your story"

"There's nothing else to it."  
"What? Those two should be together. Make it a happy ending!"

"I don't really believe in happy endings, Booth." And there it was, that stubborn tear again, at the corner of her eye, threatening to demolish her careful defense line. There didn't seem to be happy endings for her. Only painful restarts.

"Come, sit here." She put her laptop on the floor and scooted over to sit on the bed with him. "I'll make it a happy ending then. Take off your shoes. Happy endings are best told with no shoes on."

"I don't know what that means."

Booth felt it again, that jolt to his system, the sounds of bells ringing at the back of his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, there was no bringing to the foreground why it was that that sentence was so important to him.

"I don't either. But I just had my brain opened and poked at." Brennan accommodated herself as best she could without touching all the tubes and lines going in and out of him. If she closed her eyes and didn't think about it, it was almost like finishing a case and having that relaxing beer at the end of it all. Almost. "Tell me why she goes back"

"She goes back because she likes his company. And she likes the pie."

"No. She went there because he gave her wings, because he showed her a world outside of what she was used to. Because he freed her first. And then captured her again. Because he made her not want to leave."

"You're extrapolating."

"Just a little." Booth took her hand in his and studied it. It's a hand he's held so many times before he knows it by heart. The same way he knows that holding that hand makes things better, easier. And that she likes him to hold her hand. And the name that goes with the hand is right there. He knows it. But it's difficult to see it through the fog. "_He takes the fork and cuts a slice of pie. It's like spices just take a hold of your senses and grab your attention_." Brennan smiles.

"Not a bad description."  
"Shall we have a happy ending, then?" Brennan wonders if that's still possible. If happy endings are still available to her.

"I'd love that"  
.

.

_He was always sort of invisible. The kind that people don't really remember. Oh, yes, they see him there, they order their food from him. They hand him the cash and he hands then their change back, they wave him hello and goodbye. Normal human interaction. Sometimes, they even flirt with him. It comes with the night time service. But no one ever knew him. No one ever came back for him. They come back for the pie or the coffee or because it's the only place open at that time. But no one ever sat with him. No one ever listened to him- really listen, not just wait for their turn to talk- until she came in. No one ever allowed him to share their pie. Even if they didn't like it. It gave him more pleasure to share pie with her who didn't like it than with any of those that did.  
._

_._

"Really?"

"Yes. Definitely. She's different from what he knows. And different is good." It was like having Booth back- the one that argued with her, one that always made her feel better.

"I've missed you, Booth" The words were out before she could censor them, fast and eager to be heard. He moved his arm behind her back and drew her in for a hug.

"I'm here now, Brenn."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: OK, my lovelies, here it is, the final chapter. I guess we'll soon find out out this is going to go for real. A week and a half to go! I'm so excited!**

**Jane**

Chapter 6

_I'm here now, Brenn. _The words were pounding, insistently, like a hammer. _Brenn_? He never called her Brenn. She was always Bones. Or in really dire straights, Temperance. Never Brenn. Somehow, it felt as sharply painful as if he'd been calling another woman's name. A stranger who had a connection with him she had lost to a brain mass.

"Don't call me that..." She asked, somewhere between a plea and an order, sadness percolating through her voice, thick through the knot in her throat.

"Brenn? What... "

"Bones. You call me Bones. Just Bones. I asked you and argued with you not to call me Bones. _Don't call me Bones_, I told you. But you always did. _Bones, we have a case. Bones, come on. Bones, you can't have a gun_. Please... just call me Bones." Why was she shaking? Why was she making a fool of herself, upsetting him when all he needed was to rest? "I'm sorry Booth. I'm just... I just can't be rational today. I should go, let you sleep." She had already her bag in her hand and was ready to leave- barefoot- just to make a quick escape.

"Please don't go. Please... Bones." When she turned to him, he was sitting in bed, slightly unsteady, his hand trying to reach out to her. "Did anything happen? Did I do anything wrong? Because you are my Brenn and..." He kissed her hand as she approached the bed. His hand reached out to her midsection and caressed her belly. "And we're going to have a baby" Her sharp intake of air distracted him, still his hand remained on her heat. "I remember now. I'm sorry it took me so long to remember, Brenn. I had all these dreams, such strange dreams.."  
"What dreams?"

"That you were almost shot. That you were a cop and you were almost shot in a pissing contest by a junkie and that there was nothing I could do. "It felt so real, Brenn."

"It's just a dream, Booth." No, not really. That was almost a lie. It was something else she didn't have a name for. Something she couldn't explain or understand. Something terrifying in its unknown quality. Something as terrifying as his hand still rubbing her belly where the baby of her story would be or as him calling her Brenn. He was stuck in her story; he remembered her as the woman she wanted to be for him, not as the plain old Bones she was. The shock in her eyes was telling.

"Oh, God, Brenn! It felt so real. It _was _real! The Lab and the baby and..."

Why was it so painful that he wanted to hold on to the dream? Why did it pierce at her heart as a betrayal? It was just so stupid, so irrational of her. She should be happy he was awake and talking to her, that the reaction to the anesthesia was only memory loss. But she couldn't. She was selfish and just wanted her Booth back, to her, not to Brenn. She wanted the Booth who knew her better than anyone, her fears and her handicaps- and was still OK with it. This Booth did not remember any of it. This Booth would not walk through the same fire for her that had made them so much more than partners. _God, even the word_ partners _is vulgar_. What if this Booth didn't like her?

"It's OK now, Booth. Just a dream. It was just a dream." And she pulled all the strength left in her and sat back in bed with him, his bandaged head resting against her chest as if he were trying to make sure she wouldn't leave.

"Why can't you have a gun?" She thought back to their second encounter in the field and smiled.

"Long story."

"I have time"

"I know. But you also have a story to give a happy ending to. You promised." Booth searched for her hand and taking it in his, studied it.

"I think I always kept my promises with you." Her heart beat slightly faster and her throat tightened just a little.

"Yes, you did."

"Then I promise you, Brenn: everything is going to be OK."

_Invisible men see more than regular men. You see, they have more time, more patience, for the ones that really matter. Even the ones that seem invisible to themselves. He saw her when she came in. He saw the loneliness that weighed on her shoulders. The loneliness that made her sit at the counter instead of the table. And he knew that she would be worth it. The effort, the time. He knew it with as much certainty as he knew how to bake the best pie in the whole town. He just didn't know how or how long it would take him. So he took the time to study her. He let her try all the wrong flavors though he knew in his heart they were wrong for her. And then, when the time came, he realized that someone as unique as her needed a unique flavor. Something warm and intense- but not overpowering. Something that could be rediscovered with every bite. Something that he had never seen in a pie- but that would work because it was for her. Still he agonized. What if he had read the wrong signs? What if he had misinterpreted her? Even a confident baker has his moments of self-doubt and he was no exception. So he took courage and he decided to try. He started with the dough for the crust- the foundation of the pie: it had to be the best he'd ever done, crusty and only slightly sweet. Too much sugar and you can't taste anything else. Then the filling. It had to be velvety and intense- but in a way that made you want always a little bit more. And then he had to cook it for just the right time. Waiting too long is just as bad as rushing. When he was happy with the result, she walked in and sat at her customary stool and it was just at the right time, as if they had agreed on the perfect timing. As if she too knew he needed time to perfect it. As if she knew the wait would make it better._

"It sounds like a lot of work for something so simple" Brennan told him as her hand rubbed the palm on his slowly, mesmerizingly. She wished that fiction became reality, or that she could dream and believe it.

"Anything worth doing is worth doing right, Brenn... Bones"

"And you took your time with Brenn?" It was a morbid fascination, like a train wreck or the x-rays of your own weird accident like shooting yourself with a nail gun and surviving it.. But she needed to know. She saw the confusion, the hurt as clearly as if she was looking straight into his eyes.

"I... don't know." Her first instinct was to soothe him, to make it go away. So her hand started an easy movement stroking his back as if he was a cat. That much she could do- she didn't need the air that refused to enter her lungs through the knot in her throat into her tight chest to do that. "I can't remember."  
"It's OK, Booth. You will."

_He thinks that it's maybe a good idea to prepare a table before she comes in. Maybe a pretty cloth and a few matching cloth napkins. He has them somewhere. Maybe even a flower in a vase. He had a few of those from the beginning, when he opened the diner. Then he put then away: no one cared about a lowly flower in a vase. The flowers had withered without anyone sparing them a single glance. No one ever valued that detail. And then it hits him- that a table is just not right for her. Not because she doesn't deserve it, but because she doesn't want it. She doesn't want or expect the same things others do. She is different._

_When she walks in and settles at the counter, he shows her the pie that he had lovingly been baking and he knows it was just the right time to do it because he sees the resolve in her eyes, he knows that she too had been preparing for the moment when he would find her flavor. Her smile opens up to him though she is not aware of it. It's a beautiful smile, inviting and warm and he feels like walking into it and calling it home. He lets go of the old self-doubt as he slices the pie, as he places the perfect piece in a pure white dish and puts in front of her. He hands her a fork and because, even if she didn't want a table, she should have what comes with it, he hands her a pretty cloth napkin and puts a single flowered vase by her side. Then he walks to the other side of the counter and sits by her side to share that new flavor. That's just the best way to have pie: to share it with someone who knows who you are, what you are. Even if they don't really know the whole of you. Because there is always time._

"I thought you said he deserved a kiss..."

"I did, didn't I?"

"Uh, uh."

"I think you should go on."

_It's the flower. As if the moment he puts it on the counter he fills the space that had always been empty in her heart. It swells up and up until it no longer fits inside her. The pressure in her chest builds up and up until she has to release it. So, as he's looking into her eyes, she just leans into him. And it's like he moves too, because it isn't that she kisses him or that he kisses her, but just that they both kiss and are kissed. And it feels extraordinary, that symmetry of warmth and of touch, just lips first, but as the warmth grows into heat, the symmetry of flavor, of spice and sweetness. It is, in many ways, a perfect kiss. Almost as perfect as all the kisses they will be sharing from that moment onwards. It is a kiss to be discovered and re-tasted. A kiss to be remembered._

"Is the ending happy enough?"

"Yes. They will kiss again and again and again. I like that. I like that sort of ending."

"That's not real."

"Why?"

"Because there are no forevers. No one can guarantee forever."

"Of course not. What would be the point if they could?"

"I don't understand. If there are no guarantees, what's the point?"

"The point is that you try. You keep on trying." _Right,_ _yes. You're OK to keep on trying all you want. But. When random events, things like benign brain masses strike or stalkers bullets hit, what then? How do you keep on trying from those? _

"What if she had cancer or was run over by a car and died? What then?"

"What if he didn't remember her?" Her voice was so small when she answered he could barely hear her.

"Yes..."

"Bones, you don't like your fruit cooked. That's why you don't like pie. That's why the girl gets cinnamon pie."

Brennan felt her heart shiver and her skin crawling a little to the effect of his words. He remembered. He remembered her. She nodded. Her voice just wouldn't come.

"I don't remember everything. I don't remember why you don't believe in happy endings or why you would want a gun. I don't remember why I call you Bones. But what I do remember is that I really need you around because that's the only way I feel like the man I always wanted to be. I don't remember us being together, or making our baby. But I think I can only remember why you are so vital to me if you're here."

"Booth, I'm not pregnant. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! We are not together... like that. It's difficult to explain. I'm so sorry! I'm not like your Brenn. I'm not her. I'm just Bones..." Her breathing was shallow and her voice marred by the strain of containing that overwhelming flood of emotion.

"Bones..." It did hurt- that they were not together _like that_, that they were not having a baby. That she wasn't his Brenn, the Brenn he remembered or imagined or whatever it was that thing in his mind. It did. It felt too much like a loss to be relief, but there it was, and it was very close to relief. "Bones, _just Bones_, listen: I'm sorry. Please don't cry." His fingers touched the trickle of a tear sliding down her cheek. "I'm almost happy we're not together or having a baby because not remembering how we got together or when we made a baby would just crap out life. Please give me time. I know I shouldn't even ask, it's not the right thing to do, and you shouldn't feel obligated. But, please, Bones, give me time to remember why I need you to stay close. I'll figure it out. I'll figure you out again." She was not going to cry. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to cry. But somehow, stubborn, stubborn tears kept spilling from her tired eyes, as if her tired heart had a mind of its own. There was only one thing she could say.

She said _Yes._ It wasn't a happy ending. Not yet, anyway. But, maybe, it wasn't even an ending. There was too much substance between them to be an ending. She leaned back against the pillows and took a deep breath, as deep as that of runner preparing for first steps of a marathon. She could do this. She could stand by his side while he rediscovered himself. While he rediscovered her.

Booth's bandaged forehead touched hers gingerly, the old companionable gesture. Maybe while he rediscovered both of them, he could revisit some of his old taboos. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad. But for the time being, this would have to do.

"Bones, tell me another story. Tell me why you can't have a gun." She closed her eyes. She was beyond exhausted. Booth noticed. She would have opened her eyes and told him another story, his own Scheherazade. He just knew it. No matter how exhausted she was. He took her hand in his and kissed it. "Tomorrow. You can tell me tomorrow. Sleep, now." And for the first time in seven days, she slept- free of dreams, free worries, free of fears. They could start the marathon tomorrow.


End file.
